


Desperate Measures

by Estelathan



Category: Ant-Man (2015), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ant-Man (2015) Spoilers, Descriptions of Pain, Gen, Self-Harm, character injury, slight-AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:33:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estelathan/pseuds/Estelathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The idea had been simple in process- remove the damnable metal arm, find Steve, and then. . . Well, if truth be told Bucky had no idea what was supposed to come after the whole ‘finding Steve’ part of the plan but surely it had to be something better than what he had been doing thus far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate Measures

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a slight AU based off the pictures in of the Ant-Man after credit scene in which Sam and Steve find Bucky and the comment that Bucky was trying to remove his arm in order to redeem himself. Having not watched the scene myself it's all I had to go on hence I am considering this story to be AU. No disrespect is intended! The story does contain some foul language.

 

 

"Aaaaaahhhh--" The hazy stillness of an early summer morning drifted lazily across the world as orange and pink colors painted the sky with the sunrise. "Aaaaggh--" In the distance the eerie caw of crows hunting for their breakfast could be heard. "Gggggahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" And in a part of a long-since abandoned factory the strangled, guttural screams of a lone man once-named Bucky finally died off to a gasping end.  
  
“Uugghhh. . . “ The man groaned, his head falling forward as he leaned tiredly against a large piece of machinery and shut his eyes. Sweat poured down his face, plastering his brown hair to his head as the echoes of his screams continued to bounce of the metal walls, lingering like ghosts in the aftermath of a murder. “Dammit!” He panted, his chest heaving as he struggled to get his breathing back under control. It was far from easy; inside the piece of machinery his metal fingers shifted sending a sharp stab of agony swimming up his arm through his shoulder and into his head to bloom like fireworks exploding behind his eyes. Distantly he was aware of the sounds of a wounded animal crying out in pain but he had no mind to focus upon it as he hung limply against the machine like marionette with cut strings.  
  
“Dammit. . .” He muttered again as he struggled into a semi-upright position, or as close to one as he could get with his arm held fast in the machine, and forced his eyes to open again. Not for the first time he was grateful for the location: the room was large and bare aside from random pieces of equipment from a time long past, with everything covered under a veritable layer of grime and dirt. It was a good location for this, isolated and spacious enough to see anyone who could possibly try to advance upon him from nearly any angle. Not that Bucky was going anywhere anytime soon- the room swam before his eyes as nausea turned his stomach and saliva filled his mouth leaving him struggling not to retch. In the end he lasted all of three minutes before it became too much on his already strained nerves; never before had puking caused such searing agony. . . By the time it was over he was nothing more than a gasping and shaking puddle, slumped back against the machine again for support with his eyes squeezed tightly closed.  
  
By damn, this wasn’t going the way he thought it would. The idea had been simple in process- remove the damnable metal arm, find Steve, and then. . . Well, if truth be told Bucky had no idea what was supposed to come after the whole ‘finding Steve’ part of the plan but surely it had to be something better than what he had been doing thus far. Everything had went downhill fast after SHIELD was destroyed and Hydra outed and there had been no place for Bucky within the crumbling remains of either one. He’d spent these last few months almost constantly on the move, hiding out wherever he could, always looking over his shoulder for enemies that could be lurking around every corner. It was, for the lack of a better word, exhausting. It hadn’t helped that he _remembered_ Steve either, or at the very least he thought he did.  
  
Behind his closed eyes he could see the pieces of his life laid out before him like shards of glass that were far too broken to be reassembled again into a whole picture. It had been his mission after the battle on the Helicarrier- to find out everything he could about Steve Rogers, and by default, himself. How many hours had he spend lurking in the shadows of the Smithsonian exhibit studying a past he had no memory of? How many days and nights had been wasted watching and reading anything he could get his hands on about himself, or rather the man he used to be, and Steve Rogers? Countless, and yet it still wasn’t enough. James Buchanan Barnes—even after seeing the undeniable truth that it was his name, it still rang false against his ears all this time later. Perhaps it had been his name once upon a time but the man who went with that name had been gone for a long time now. Bucky, the name Steve had called him, bothered him a little less he’d found, though how much of that could be attributed back to his odd attachment to Steve he honestly did not know.  
  
The only way to find out for sure was to find Steve again which looped back around to him being in this abandoned factory in the middle of nowhere in the first place. Where the idea had sprung from to remove the metal arm Bucky could not recall, but once it had sunk in he hadn’t questioned it. The arm was a reminder of Hydra, a reminder of things he’d done and couldn’t change and if he was ever to get past it the arm needed to go. If only things could have been that simple. . . In progress removing the arm had been anything _but_ simple. He’d tried crushing it, he tried cutting it off, and in a truly desperate attempt he’d even considered taking a torch and melting it off yet in the end none of those things had worked. Now here he was trying to pull it off with nothing more than the force of his will and his own body. It was a shame; like everything else in his Swiss cheese brain the memories of the surgeries used to attach the arm were long gone leaving only an empty hole which would probably never be filled again.  
  
It was a double-edged sword to be grateful for; there were already enough horrors crowding through his spotty mind without adding in the ones he could no longer remember, although when it came to something like this- what if instead of removing the arm he screwed it up instead causing it to malfunction?- he was flying blind. Ugh! If only there was someone, anyone, left to ask. . .  
  
Brown eyes opened again slowly, blinking sluggishly in the weak light at the way the room seemed to shift like waves upon the tide before righting once more. _You need to get on with it,_ his mind supplied, _before you can’t any longer._ Yes, despite the haze of pain clouding his mind that thought was the one that struck out crystal clear. He needed to suck it up and get the job finished before he became too weak to finish it. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, willing his mind to clear long enough to get this done. He could do this, he could. . . He exhaled, the sound echoing loudly in the stillness around him. It didn’t mean he had to like any of this.

 

  
He didn’t.

  
  
Why was he doing this again?

  
  
Time passed like dripping molasses but finally Bucky found himself standing again as straight as he could considering the circumstances. He swallowed hard and began counting backwards as he let his mind go blank, his focus narrowing down on his arm trapped within the machine.

  
  
One. . .

  
  
He could do this.

  
  
Two. . .

  
  
He _needed_ to do this.

  
  
Three. . . 

  
  
He pulled.

  
  
Agony exploded inside his skull with all the ferocity of a nuclear bomb. The wounded animal was back, howling and screeching its pain to the heavens to be put out of its misery and Bucky could relate, oh could he ever, as agony slid into torture and outside his mind he began to convulse. Pain whitewashed his brains and coated his tongue with lead before finally dragging him down under the swirling black waters and holds him there.  
  
It’s old instincts that surface first from the dark lagoon the rest of him is cocooned in—a subtle shift in the air, the echoing sounds of footsteps coming closer- he’s no longer alone. As soon as he processes this the footsteps become clearer, more defined, and they are definitely heading in his direction. _Shit._ Before he can do anything even approaching thinking about what he’s going to do the steps stop a good foot away and the sharp sound of someone sucking their breath in echoes loudly in his ears. “Jeez. . .” A voice, male, whispers, horror evident in the tone. The footsteps falter, backup a step and turn before the voice is calling out in struggling, and failing not to be, wavering tones: “Um. . . You’re gonna want to see this.”  
  
There’s another set of footsteps hurrying towards him from across the factory, the loud squeaking of the rubber echoing across the floor as the person moves. The part of his brain that is, and always will be, the solider takes note of this newcomer in addition to the one still there as Bucky continues his struggle up from the blackness. By the time the second pair of footsteps come to a screeching halt near the first he’s nearly broken the surface but nothing could prepare him for the voice that suddenly comes out of nowhere and asks: “Bucky?” _Steve._  
  
At the sound of Steve’s voice Bucky finally breaks the surface of his malaise and forces open watery eyes. The light burns and the world is still tilting like a ship being tossed around at sea but there’s no mistaking the fuzzy outline of the man standing there looking down at him: it’s Steve. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or to try to find somewhere to hide because of course, out of everyone hunting him Steve would be the first to actually find him! A hysterical laugh bubbles up inside but gets locked somewhere in his chest turning into a strangled half sob as Bucky stares up at Steve.  
  
Pain keeps rolling through Bucky’s body causing him to shake minutely from the force of it. Somehow he ended up slumped back against the machine again, nearly down on his knees, with that damnable metal arm still caught fast within it. He doesn’t dare move it, he can feel the blood starting to seep into the sleeve of his shirt from where metal meets flesh and suddenly Bucky’s had enough of this. He’s beyond exhausted, in pain, and while he has no idea why Steve’s even here of all places, he wants out of here. “Help me. . .” He mouths, the words little more than air and whimpers as he pleads with Steve. In this moment Bucky doesn’t care where Steve takes him, doesn’t care what he could do to him, he just wants to leave.  
  
Above him there’s a muffled oath from the other man with Steve and then they’re discussing what to do with him in tense, echoing words but Bucky’s long past caring. He should, he knows, but the darkness is closing in again and he’s just not in the mood to fight it off. He falls back under with Steve’s voice in his ears and the vague hope that when he wakes again he will be somewhere else. Somewhere safe.


End file.
